


The Land of the Forgotten; Where I, Loved You.

by medusacascade22



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, NHL RPF, Slash, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusacascade22/pseuds/medusacascade22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Mike Green forgets his keys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Land of the Forgotten; Where I, Loved You.

**Author's Note:**

> Set circa 2008 when Brooks and Mike lived in the same building. Any specific game details/injuries/etc are fictitious, and not allusions to canon events.
> 
> I own nothing but the plot, and comments are always appreciated :D

Mike Green is a big boy. He folds his own socks after laundering them himself, cooks his own dinner (even though it isn’t always exactly edible), and pays his bills on time every month. Mike Green has his shit together, apart from one little flaw; sometimes he forgets his keys. But luckily, Brooks Laich has his back.

~

The first time it happened, Mike panicked. To his credit, it was somewhere around two in the morning and he’d been out celebrating a big win with some of the less prudent Capitals, and had a few more drinks than he cared to count.  The alcohol surged in his blood, fueling his anxiety. Mike’s fingers fumbled into his pocket, grasping his phone and pushing random buttons until miraculously he heard Nicklas’ voice through the speaker.

“Hello?” Nick’s accent was slurred a bit, as he’d indulged in a few drinks as well, which was far from characteristic for him.

“Nicky!” Mike yelled, pressing his ear to his phone. Realizing where he was and the sleeping neighbors around him, he switched to a hushed tone. “Nicky,” He repeated. “I fucked up, man.”

Nick swore in Swedish. “What is it this time?”

“I don’t have my keys!” Mike almost wailed. “I left them this morning.”

“Why are you telling me this? Go to Brooks’, Greenie. It will be okay.”

 _Right, Brooks._ Mike smacked his own forehead. _Of course._ How could he have forgotten? Mike’s new apartment was in the same building as Brooks Laich’s. Mike thanked Nick more than a sober person would before hanging up and making a beeline for the elevator.

A few floors and a few less-than pleasant encounters (people were mean at two A.M. when a drunk and teary guy mistakenly knocks on their door), Mike finally found Brooks’ apartment.

“Hey, Green.” Brooks said, opening his door and grinning. “I thought I left you at the bar.”

“Brooksie!” Mike’s face lit up, throwing himself into Laich’s arms. Or at least, he tried. The momentum knocked both men to the floor.

“It seems you stayed longer than I expected, eh?” Brooks laughed after extracting himself from under Mike’s body, who simply rolled over onto his back, still on the floor. “So, to what do I owe this drunken honor?”

“Forgot my keys,” Mike explained, his words hardly intelligible.

“Ah. I’ve got your spare somewhere around here…” Brooks stepped over Mike’s lifeless body, heading to the kitchen. He had just begun rummaging around in his first drawer when a horrible noise assaulted his ears. Mike, it seemed, had fallen asleep on Brooks’ hall floor and was now snoring.

“Aw, come on,” Brooks nudged Mike’s ribs, effectively stopping the snoring. “At least get your bum onto the couch.”

“Whaaa?” Mike blinked, his mouth lolling open.

“We’ve got a game tomorrow. Last thing you need is to sleep on the floor and wake up with a messed up back.”

Mike mumbled in response, lifting his arms out to his teammate. With a sigh, Brooks grabbed Mike’s forearms and started dragging him across the floor and towards the living room. It took some work, as Mike weighed about twenty pounds more than him, but Brooks managed to force the inebriated Mike onto the couch.

“Thanks, Brooksie,” Mike smiled, eyes already closed. He mumbled something that sounded like “ _wuvoo”_ and Brooks tried to ignore the words along with the warmth in the pit of his stomach that they caused.

“No problem, buddy.” Brooks threw his Caps fleece blanket across Mike’s curled body. The snoring started up almost immediately. Brooks frowned slightly, hoping he’d be able to sleep through the noise. Before heading back to his room, Brooks stooped down to smooth a piece of hair off of Mike’s forehead and back into the spike, smiling to himself. Mike may be a big bulky hockey player, but sleep was a sweet, almost innocent look on him.

Mike was gone before Brooks woke up. He folded the blanket and left it on the edge of the couch with a note.

“ _Thanks Brooksie. I owe you one.”_

Brooks smiled as he read it, and his heart fluttered in a way that he would deny to anyone who asked. He clipped the note to his fridge with a stray magnet, assuming that “one” would probably end up being a drink that night at the hopeful-victory party.

~

A few months later, it happened again. Brooks opened the door to find Mike on his doorstep with a mostly-melted bag of ice pressed to his jaw.

“Oh crap,” Brooks said, stepping aside to let Mike in. “What happened to you?”

“I left my keys behind again,” Mike started.

“No, I mean the face.”

“Oh, erm. I took a stick to the face during practice this morning. Doc told me to ice it.”

“Of all the days for me to opt out of morning skate,” Brooks clicked his tongue, directing Mike to the couch. “Give me that,” he said, reaching his hand out for the bag. Mike handed it over and reached his freed hand out to prod the gash. “Don’t!” Brooks grabbed his wrist before it could make contact. “You’ll just re-open it.”

“Okay, mom,” Mike tried to smirk, but couldn’t hide the wince of pain. Brooks grabbed a cloth and a new cold pack from the freezer.

“Alright now, let me see it.” Brooks crouched in front of Mike and gently took his stubbly chin in his hand. Mike winced again. Brooks frowned in apology and began to lightly dab at the cut. Brooks’ fingers were soft and warm on the skin of Mike’s face.

Mike tried to hold still. His breath was hard and labored with the effort not to show his pain. He watched Brooks through almost-closed lids. The concentration was evident on Brooks’ face.

Mike couldn’t help but notice the little crinkle that formed between Brooks’ eyebrows, or how the effort made his eyes seem almost impossibly bluer. Brooks’ eyes were the topic of much conversation, Mike knew, but he’d never really taken the time to examine them. They were blue, sure, but there was more to them than that. Mike shuffled through adjectives in his mind. _Intense,_ he considered.  He thought maybe _infinite_ but rejected it, as it sounded too cliché. _Whatever those eyes are looking at is the most important thing in the universe,_ Mike thought, almost with awe.

He didn’t realize how caught up he had gotten in Brooks’ face until Brooks spoke next. Mike blinked hard and cleared his throat.

“Okay, all clean. Ice it with this.” Brooks pressed the cold pack to Mike’s jaw. Mike expected Brooks to let go, and moved his hand to support it. Their fingers muddled together for a moment before Brooks pulled away and stood up.

“Thanks, bro,” Mike said, voice a bit shaken, though he couldn’t place why.

“No problem,” Brooks sifted through a drawer in his kitchen before emerging with Mike’s spare key. He tossed it, and Mike caught it as he headed towards the door.

“Remember, Mike,” Brooks called when Mike had one foot in the hall. “Your face is not a puck!”

~

“I’m starting to think you do this on purpose,” Brooks grinned.

“I’m an idiot.” Mike sighed apologetically. “Wanna let me in? It’s cold as balls outside.”

“Yeah, sure,” Brooks laughed as Mike shivered on his welcome mat. “You know, I don’t have your spare key. You never gave it back last time.”

Mike’s eyes widened at the words, silent for a moment as he comprehended them. He then grabbed the sides of his head and let a long string of obscenities fall out of his mouth.

“Calm down, Mikey.” Brooks set a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Who else has a key?”

Mike wiped a hand down his face before speaking. “Nicky does, but he’s in Sweden for some cousin’s wedding.”

“It’s ten P.M. on a Sunday,” Brooks glanced at his watch. “A locksmith won’t come till tomorrow morning.”

“Fuck, Brooksie, what the fuck am I gonna do?” Mike kicked the wall in frustration.

“First of all, you’re going to try not to break holes into my apartment.” Brooks tried not to smile at the mini tantrum. “And second, you’re going to stay in my spare room and call the locksmith in the morning. Okay?”

“You sure?” Mike asked hopefully.

“Of course. What are teammates for?” Brooks squeezed Mike’s shoulder. Unexpectedly, Mike turned and pulled Brooks into a tight hug.

“I really appreciate this, buddy.” Mike said into Brooks’ t-shirt. “Maybe I’ll even let you beat me in Tiger Woods.” Mike pulled away, grinning. The panic was gone from his eyes, the playful sparkle returned. Brooks tried not to be disappointed at the brevity of the contact.

“Oh yeah, like I don’t beat your bum on my own!” Brooks laughed and headed over to boot up the game console.

Brooks and Mike spent the evening on the couch with controllers gripped in callused hands. The final score ended in Brooks’ favor, which he insisted was completely genuine.

It wasn’t until Mike’s eyes began to glaze over and he could no longer focus on the screen, (due partly to tiredness, and partly to the many empty beer cans strewn around the room) that he suggested heading to bed.

“Probably a good idea,” Brooks sighed, switching off the television. “Come on, I’ve gotta find the spare sheets.”

Brooks headed into his room and opened the doors to the closet. Mike shuffled in behind him, and plopped down on Brooks’ bed. _This is where Brooks takes his dates,_ Mike thought. He felt the familiar pang of jealousy in the center of his chest, but convinced himself it was the exhaustion speaking… or possibly the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while. Hockey took up a lot of time, after all.

 He slid his palms against the comforter, finding it soft and oh-so inviting. Mike felt his eyelids droop and tried his best to force them open.

“It’s been a while since someone stayed over,” Brooks called from deep within the closet. “This might take a while.”

Mike hardly managed a groan in response, slowly giving up the fight against the sleep he craved. When Brooks emerged from the closet with a bundle of white linen over his shoulder, he was greeted by a sleeping defensemen lying on the edge of his bed.

“Oh crap,” Brooks sighed and poked Mike in the chest. “Get up, Mike. You’re in the wrong bed.” Mike didn’t budge. Brooks considered pulling Mike off the bed and at least to the couch, but decided against it when he remembered how sore he felt after dragging Mike just across a room. He settled for simply pushing Mike far enough onto the bed that he wouldn’t fall off in his sleep and falling down next to him. Brooks knew it would make for an interesting conversation in the morning, sleeping in the same bed, but fell asleep before he had much time to worry about it.

The moment Mike woke up, he knew something was off, but not necessarily in a bad way. The bed he was firmer than his. The blanket tucked around him was silky instead of fleece. Mike’s eyes were directed towards the ceiling, but he could hear the even breathing of another body next to him.

It took Mike a few moments to remember the events of the previous night. He breathed a sigh of relief when he did remember; glad he wouldn’t have to deal with a one-night stand.

On that thought, a new wave of fear rippled through him. Mike’s heart rate sped to a gallop as he ripped the comforter from his body and glanced down. _Fully clothed._ Another sigh of relief. He pushed the creeping feeling of disappointment to the back of his mind and chose to focus on more pressing issues, like the fact that he was in a bed that wasn’t his.

Although he was glad his position had been a simple case of exhaustion, Mike didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have much time to formulate a plan when he heard a yawn from the body next to him.

Mike cleared his throat before speaking. “Erm, good morning.”

“Morning, yeah,” Brooks stretched and let out a groan. “Let’s just agree right now that this isn’t going to be weird. No harm, no foul.”

“Sounds fucking good to me,” Mike agreed and felt the knot of stress in his chest begin to disintegrate. The small feeling of disappointment that Mike couldn’t explain slipped from his mind and began filling up the newly vacated space instead. He decided to distance himself from the problem, as he could no longer ignore it. “The locksmith should be here soon. I’ll go and wait for him.” Mike said, giving himself an escape route.

“Good luck, man. I’m going back to sleep. Later.” Brooks wrapped himself around his pillow and was back in dreamland before Mike had opened the bedroom door.

Mike stopped in the doorway, leaning against the wall and looking back towards the bed. He couldn’t help but smile at the scene. Brooks clutched a pillow in his arms, nuzzling his cheek against it in his sleep. Mike felt that pang again, and was so surprised by it that his hand flew to his chest. _What the fuck?_

 

The next night, alone in his own bed, Mike couldn’t sleep. After waking up after a few minutes of un-restful sleep, Mike realized what was wrong. His bed was empty. There was no warm body beside him. The sheets didn’t smell of Crest toothpaste and Old Spice deodorant. Brooks wasn’t next to him. Mike refused to accept it. Why the fuck would one weird night in his friend’s bed change so much? It didn’t make sense, and Mike could hardly begin to sort himself out.

Did he have a crush on his teammate? His best friend? _No, it’s impossible,_ Mike thought. _I like girls._ His memory shuffled back through his ex-girlfriends and how he’d felt about them, trying to compare these new feelings to the old ones. Mike came up even more confused than before, finding too many similarities yet just as many differences.

Mike fell backwards back onto his bed, muffling a frustrated grunt with a pillow thrown over his face. The irritation and the confusion slowly cleared his mind, allowing him to see what he’d always known. Brooks was something brand new, and Mike wanted to find out more.

He wanted to, but knew he couldn’t. Not if he valued their friendship or their team. With that reality in mind, Mike carefully constructed a wall of denial and control, and fell asleep safely behind it.

~

Brooks was drunk. Brooks was never drunk. Sure, he would have a few beers ever now and then, but he was always so careful and in control and never so fucking _drunk._ But there he was, giggling and tripping and tipsy as all hell.

“Mikey!” Brooks yelled across the bar, followed by a burp. Mike ducked through the doorway, shooting a smile at the familiar bartender. He exchanged a few greetings with the other Caps attendees before turning to Brooks.

“Hey there, tiger,” Mike said, settling himself in a chair. Brooks’ flushed face lit up at the words, and he hurried closer. His foot caught on the leg of a table on his way, causing him to lose his faulty balance and land in Mike’s lap. Mike remembered a similar yet reversed situation a few months ago, when Mike had sent them tumbling to the floor when he’d first moved into his current apartment.

“Mike,” Brooks giggled, completely oblivious to the circulation in Mike’s leg that he was currently restricting. “You haven’t even bought be dinner yet.” Mike tried to steady his breathing, as he suddenly felt a few too many degrees warmer. _Don’t you fucking dare,_ he thought towards his crotch. He shut his eyes tight for a moment, thinking of car crashes and dentures before returning to the current dilemma.

“I’d offer, but you seem to have consumed enough already tonight.” Mike carefully (if not reluctantly) moved Brooks off of him, who obliged and let himself be pushed into another chair. Mike squinted at him in the dim bar light, and saw a gloss over his eyes. “Nicky, how much has he had?” he asked across the table.

“Don’t know. Too many. Maybe you should take him home?” Nick suggested before turning back to his conversation with Marcus Johansson. Mike sighed, knowing that Nick was probably right. Brooks would never be able to get home on his own, and the last thing he needed was to stay at the bar and let fans by him _more_ drinks.

“Alright, Laich. Time to get you home.” He stood, expecting Brooks to follow.

“But I want to stay at the party!” Brooks whined, pouting a little. Mike tried not to laugh.

“The party’s almost over. Come on, I’m taking you.” Mike insisted, reaching for Brooks’ arm.

“Fine, but you still owe me dinner.” Brooks agreed, and tried to wink cheekily. He did his best to stand on shaky legs, barely managing to stay upright. Mike flung Brooks’ arm over his own shoulder and secured a hold around his back, realizing that Brooks couldn’t walk straight. “Bye, guys!” Brooks called back to the team as Mike marched him out the front door.

The seatbelt proved to be a bit tricky, but Mike managed to get Brooks safely into his car. He revved the engine and looked over at Brooks.

“What are you staring at?” Mike asked him.

“I like this car,” Brooks said in a husky voice. “It’s sexy.”

Mike blushed, and hoped that the dashboard lights didn’t illuminate his face enough to make the flush visible. _He’s drunk,_ he reminded himself. _He doesn’t know what he’s saying._

“I bet it gets you a lot of girls.” Brooks added, looking intently at Mike through the darkness.

“I don’t know about that,” Mike sighed. _Fucking hell, Brooks._ He turned into their building’s parking garage, suddenly worried as to how he’d get Brooks out of the car and into his apartment. He managed, though, and was soon winding through the building while supporting Brooks.

“You’re right,” Brooks said. Mike made an inquisitive noise, more focused on keeping both their bodies from crashing to the ground. “You don’t need the car to get girls.”

“Why’s that?”

“You get them on your own.” Brooks explained like it was common knowledge. Mike was glad for the dim lights, hiding his second blush of the night. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

“Where’s your key, Brooksie?”

“My pocket,”

“Which pocket?”

“I ‘unno. Find out.”

“Damn, you’re a flirty drunk.” Mike said, earning him a loud laugh from Brooks.

Knowing he had no other choice, Mike held his breath and reached a hand into Brooks’ left pocket. His fingers prodded against Brooks’ thigh, finding nothing. He tried the right pocket, and came up with a tangle of keys.

“I may be flirty, but you’re the one trying to get in my pants.” Brooks pointed out as Mike unlocked the door and pushed it open. Mike rolled his eyes, but the gesture was lost as Brooks was already stumbling inside and reaching for the laces of his shoes. He got one off and tossed it into a corner of the kitchen. Mike followed him into the bedroom, just in case Brooks was going to pass out and hit his head on the bathroom tile or something equally problematic.

“Only because you couldn’t do it yourself,” Mike leaned against the wall, smiling smugly to himself. _Two can play at this game,_ he thought _._ Brooks stuck his tongue out at the comment and sloppily removed his t-shirt.

Mike had seen Brooks undress hundreds of times. They were teammates; they shared a locker-room, so of course he’s seen Brooks practically naked. It was part of the job. But there Brooks stood, his pale chest oddly illuminated by the faint moonlight coming through the window, and Mike couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Brooks fumbled with his belt, unable to unhook it. “Could you?” He asked, pointing to the problem.

“Uh,” Mike hesitated, knowing this was a terrible idea. He could hardly censor the thoughts in his head and knew that activities so close to the groin area couldn’t end well. But what was he supposed to do, leave his best friend hanging? “Alright,” _This is gonna be fun,_ he thought. Even the voice in his mind has a sarcastic edge.

Mike wiped his palms on his jeans, suddenly sweating and nervous. He slowly moved towards Brooks, carefully calculating each of his footfalls. He did his best to avoid Brooks’ eyes and reached for the belt. A few wrist movements and tugs later, Brooks’ belt was undone, both ends secure in Mike’s fists.

 _Fuck it_ , Mike decided. He let his eyes roam from the belt up, across the line of Brooks’ hips, stepping up each of his abdominal muscles, up the slope of his neck, straight into those blue eyes. Brooks’ pupils were small from the alcohol, but they bore straight through Mike’s, causing him to shyly look away towards Brooks’ shoulder. His soft breaths ghosted across Mike’s ear, heavy and warm.

Mike let his fingers inch from the belt to the waist band of Brooks’ jeans, and onto the cold skin above. His hands settled there and he risked a glance back to Brooks’ to gauge his reaction. His eyes were just as intense as before, if not a bit darker. Brooks’ eyelids slid a little lower as he reached a hand up to the back of Mike’s neck.

They stood still for a few moments, both unsure of what to do. The room lay silent but for the sound of their even synchronized breathing.

Tentatively, Brooks inched forward and lightly pressed his lips to Mike’s. He pulled away just as slowly. Mike’s breath caught in the back of his throat.

“You’re drunk,” Mike said so quietly that it was more of an exhale with syllables. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, I do.” Brooks insisted in a matching whisper. He searched Mike’s eyes, seeing disbelief and lust. “I want this.”

“Don’t say that,” Mike’s voice was harsher than he meant it to be. He took a few deep breaths before speaking again. “It’s just… I want you. I have for some time now. That’s a reality that I can hardly accept.”

“I want you too,” Brooks cut in, fingertips migrating to Mike’s cheek. Mike closed his eyes, leaning slightly into the touch. “I’ve wanted you for ages. I just didn’t think you’d be okay with that, until now.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mike said.

“It’s true. I promise.” Mike heard the words and saw the sincerity on Brooks’ face, but still wasn’t confident that it wasn’t the alcohol talking.

“Prove it,” Mike challenged. Brooks responded by pressing forward again, with more force this time. His lips collided with Mike’s in a way that Mike couldn’t help but respond to. His hands gripped Brooks’ hips more firmly, letting his mouth soften and yield to Brooks.

“Does that prove-” Brooks started, pulling away slightly. He was cut off by Mike’s lips, which he took as an affirmative.

The thin layers of self-control and secrecy and shame that Mike had been building and supporting over the past few weeks ripped to shreds. He knew there was no going back now, but with his senses filled with Brooks, he couldn’t think of a reason why he’d want to.

~

 

fin.


End file.
